


Nehraa Qun

by Mistress_of_Squirrels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Betrayal, F/M, Qun Iron Bull, spoilers for Trespasser dlc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_of_Squirrels/pseuds/Mistress_of_Squirrels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every memory is like the page of a book...Write a few notes in the margins of a page, erase a word here and there, your whole outlook changes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nehraa Qun

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea that grabbed hold and refused to let go. I've never actually had this happen in my game (and never will), so I had to rely on youtube videos and interviews with the writer.

_The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless._

It had been a fun role while it lasted, comfortable as an old pair of boots. Too comfortable, in hindsight. Too easy to forget that the man he pretended to be was nothing more than an act, a mask, false as the smiling, painted faces of Orlais. But even in Orlais, a mask is just a mask. It can conceal -even disguise – but the face beneath remains the same. His greatest mistake was allowing himself to forget he was wearing one at all.

_Struggle is an illusion._

He couldn't say when it happened. There was no defining event that stood out in his memory, but somewhere along the way, the liar started believing his own lies. Time lent fiction the appearance of fact, until it became difficult to separate the man from the role. His reports to the Ben-Hassrath kept the line between the two from blurring out of existence entirely, but in his most secret moments, when he wasn't lying to himself as well as everyone around him, he could admit he preferred the act.

_They are bound by their being._

But truth is inescapable, as relentless and bludgeoning as a hammer, and masks are such fragile things. It only took a Tal-Vashoth to remind him.

The hammer fell in the form of an order, the impact as silent as the horn in his hand. It was beneath the weight of eyes hard and bright as amethysts that the first cracks in the mask formed. They were small at first, bloodless wounds that might have went unnoticed save that they felt like furrows gouged into his heart.

The constant rain of the Storm Coast poured down his face like tears, warm as the blood that soaked into the ground as he looked on. The bond with his men took shape over years, forged in the fires of battle, the comradery of shared laughter and spilled drinks. It was over in mere minutes, that same bond sundered by blade and spell. The Qun demanded it. The irony that a Tal-Vashoth had obeyed that demand while he hesitated was not lost on him.

_Loss of self is the source of suffering._

Krem, Rocky, Dalish, Skinner, Grim, Stitches. Each name tightened his throat a bit more until he wondered if he'd ever be able to swallow past the lump that had formed. He spent his free time in the tavern, eyes skirting around the empty chair near the stairs, the small table in the corner now used by Inquisition soldiers. The Herald's Rest had always been one of the busiest places in Skyhold, and the difference of six was quickly made up for, the crowd larger than ever. Never before had it felt so empty.

Not even Cabot's best stock could dull the ache of missing faces. They died for the man they believed in; they died for a lie. But wasn't that his specialty?

Under the Qun, they were bas, necessary props for the job he was assigned to do. That they were more than tools to him was irrelevant. That was also his mistake. If he had remembered which role was real, would anything have changed? Perhaps not, but the cobbler does not mourn a missing awl; he simply finds a new one and continues his work.

_Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it._

The urn in his hands was cold, heavier than it ought to be for what it held. Large hands cupped the pottery as if it were the most precious of artifacts and he ran a finger along the decorated rim. It was nonsensical, this reverence for a handful of dust, but he chalked it up to one more mistake in a long line of many. Qunari remains were afforded no special treatment, but they weren't qunari, and he owed them _something_.

She was there when he released their ashes over Skyhold, and he doubted he could have done so without her solemn support. He watched as all that remained of the Bull's Chargers drifted away on the wind, and lamented his inability to give them proper rites.

_Ataash varin kata_. His final lie to them, but the best he could offer.

He ignored the apology in the inquisitor's eyes, the sorrow that etched fine lines around her mouth. Let them be remembered as heroes. He knew the truth, but it made for a better legacy than lambs for the slaughter.

He thanked her as they left, and it was perhaps the most sincere he'd ever been. It was a relief to no longer be at odds with himself, to no longer question what parts were real. She was responsible for that, and he meant it when he said he would always remember.

In return, he did what he could to ease the burden of leadership. He could see how it weighed on her, day after day. For a few hours, he could take all of that away, give her a bit of order amongst the chaos, just as she had given him. Ending up in the inquisitor's bed was probably not what the Ben-Hassrath had in mind when they told him to join the Inquisition, but he was still keeping to the spirit of his orders, if not the letter.  
  
_He saw at last the order in the world._

The loss of the Chargers widened the fissures, but he left the mask in place. He wanted to enjoy the role while he could, even if he was more subdued about it now. He knew it would all be stripped from him soon enough.

Memories of what was still haunted him in the depths of the night, but there was a measure of peace in certainty, in knowing one's place. He'd forgotten what that was like. There were those at Skyhold that resented him for that peace, but he ignored them. They could not understand, and it was not his job to enlighten.

The new alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari allowed for fewer restrictions placed on the intelligence he relayed to the Ben-Hassrath, though he noticed a subtle shift in what they sent back. The qunari were not happy about how the inquisitor ran the organization, particularly the rampant freedom of mages in the wake of a magical disaster, but ridding the world of an insane magister was top priority.

He knew once that was accomplished, they would turn their attention to other issues, but he didn't allow himself to dwell on just what that would mean. His was not to question; he would do his duty regardless.

_Knowledge of the complex is wisdom._

He pondered the wisdom in letting whatever he had with the inquisitor continue. It added a level of complexity to their relationship, though not one devoid of mutual benefit. Her success meant the success of them all, and he would do his part to see her and the inquisition succeed.

She took him completely by surprise when she gave him the dragon tooth, an uncomfortable feeling for one in his line of work. He had told her of the tradition in response to what he thought was idle curiosity; he hadn't expected her to actually go through with it, and this gave him pause.

He'd told her more than once that qunari simply didn't have the kind of relationship she wanted to acknowledge. Still, the tooth did signify a bond, and since that was what she seemed to need, he accepted the gift with genuine warmth.

Later, she would ask if it was all a job to him. His reply was simple; the truth, anything but. It was more than a job, it was the purpose he'd been lacking. It was gratitude, fond affection for her role in setting him back on his path, returning him to his true self. She was a balm to hidden wounds still raw from the loss of his men. She made it more than a job.

It couldn't last, but that was not reason enough to deny the time they had.

_It is in our power to create the world or destroy it._

He knew they'd call for him, and he answered with a resignation that bordered on relief when they finally did. This was what needed to be done. This was where he was supposed to be.

Despite wearing it for so long, the mask came free with little difficulty. The inquisitor had made their job easy. For all the time he'd spent away, there was little to do but sweep aside the broken pieces and reveal the true face beneath. Hissrad.

He was still a valuable tool, worn and in need of mending perhaps, but not broken beyond repair. The Qun did not discard that which still had use. He would serve as they saw fit.

_Asit tal-eb._

The mask was gone, but the role was as familiar to him as the beating of his heart. She saw what he wanted her to see, the return of a former comrade, the return of a lover. He smiled and played the part, fed her the empty gestures she'd come to expect.

He never did find out why the corpse was there in the first place, but it did little more than provide an interesting twist as she worked to uncover their plot. With no hint of doubt, she chose him to accompany her through the labyrinth, and after so long of following her lead, no one questioned her decision.

The order came, and like some perverse parody of that day on the Storm Coast, it was her turn to hesitate. She turned to him, violet eyes wide in shock as they searched his face for some sign of reluctance or regret. He met her eyes, unfazed. It was nothing personal, just another job.

_Anaan esaam Qun._

 

 


End file.
